“I’m going, no matter if you wish me to or not.”
The words of the letter, shaky and ill formed, shouted sincerity to Avalon. It might be a trap. But Claudia did not deserve to be dismissed so easily. Even more than that, Avalon sensed in this note the completion of a circle; the coming end of a cycle of events she had never deliberately thought to link together. She had to go.
“I would prefer not to go alone,” she added out loud to Marcus, not dropping her stare. “But either way, I must answer this request. If Warner is truly dying, then there is nothing to fear from him. If he is not, then it is still too late for him to wed me.”
Marcus, frozen and fierce, said nothing.
“An honorable person could not refuse a cry for help,” said Balthazar softly, prompting Marcus to swing his gaze to the Moor. “Do you not remember this, Kincardine?”
No one spoke. Avalon felt the force of her resolution in her spine, stiff and straight, and the remorse in her belly, low and miserable. She did not want to go alone. She did not want to hurt Marcus. But there was something at Trayleigh calling her name, and she knew she had to return to her old home, the scene of such upheaval in her life, or else forever wander in regret that she had not.
Marcus had turned his stare, basilisk-like, to one of the hearths. To Avalon it seemed the flames of the fire held the only color and life in the room.
Marcus took a breath.
“It’s going to be a damned cold ride,” her husband said.
Chapter Fifteen
Trayleigh hung on the edges of the horizon, dull gray under the leaden sky, strangely silent, only one ghostly glow in a window on the lower story. All else was empty and eerie.
The group from Sauveur paused as one at the crest of a slope, before riding down into the valley that held the village—clustered huts and buildings closed up as tight, it seemed, as the castle.
Without a doubt, Marcus thought, there was something wrong. It was not natural for a demesne the size of Trayleigh to be bereft of activity on such a day, which was cloudy and unpleasant but not unmanageable.
Avalon, beside him on a mare the color of dappled storm, lifted her face and scanned the area as intently as he did. But if she saw something alarming that he did not, she didn’t say anything.
He didn’t like any of it, not one damned bit. Not the barren village, not the phantom castle, not the miserable weather, and most especially not being here with his wife at his side, brave and bold and unyielding in her resolve to answer the obviously duplicitious summons of her murdering relatives. The whole idea of it was almost unbelievably, laughably foolhardy, and he was not accustomed to turning his life over to foolhardy ideas. Not any longer.
But Avalon had seen enough, apparently, and softly clucked to her mare, starting her down the gentle slope of the hill to the village below. Marcus had no choice but to catch up with her.
The gate to Trayleigh was open. There was no sentry guarding it. Marcus felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck as they rode through, everyone tense, all with hands on their swords, all eyes alert.
If it was a trap, if there were archers hidden behind the plain lines of this castle, then they were all as good as dead, and Marcus knew it. His group would have paltry defense against a rain of arrows, but he was betting that they would not risk killing Avalon so openly. He hoped—no, he prayed—that was so.
But there was no deadly shower. And there was still no sentry at the gate as one by one they began to dismount. No one came to take charge of their steeds.
The courtyard was empty, only the scratching of the wind providing any relief at all from the silence.
Marcus focused on wiping the dread from his mind, concentrating instead on remaining vigilant, ready to move with lethal force when it came time to defend his beloved.
Almost one hundred of his best men surrounded them. A hundred men was no small army, not these Highlanders of his, all of them seasoned warriors and spoiling for a fight. It was a clear declaration on his part to Warner: I know of your trap. Close it if you dare.
He had left one hundred more rimming the village and the castle grounds. They carried their own bows and broadswords, ready for his signal whenever he would give it, and if he did not—or could not—then Bal would. Then Hew. Then Sean. And so on down the line, to whichever of them would manage to leave this place alive.
Nay, he didn’t like it here, but upon reflection, Marcus decided, drawing his Spanish blade, it might not be such a bad thing to inflict a little retribution. If not for his own troubles caused by these d’Farouches, then for Avalon, for the loss of her family and her childhood.
Aye, there was a just and noble cause indeed.
One-half of the double main doors to the keep crept open; Marcus saw Avalon turn toward it and followed her look, sword ready.
A lone figure eased out of the crease of space, dressed in heavy folds of black, a black veil shielding the face. Then pale hands lifted the veil, and Marcus saw that it was a woman under the shrouds, a woman who pinned her gaze on Avalon and let out a small cry.
“Cousin!” came the call, and the woman shuffled forward, a curious gait muffled by the trailing lines of black material around her. Marcus saw Avalon move toward this woman, her steps strong and unhesitant.
“Claudia,” she said calmly, and allowed the woman to fall into her arms.
Lady Claudia was murmuring something in a voice Marcus almost couldn’t hear, even though he made certain he was only a pace behind his wife, close enough to strike down danger.
“Praise God,” the woman was saying, over and over, husky and tearful and sounding very sincere. Eventually she pulled back from Avalon, lifted reddened eyes to take in the army of men behind them, some still mounted, others standing close by.
“Praise God you have come,” said Claudia loudly to them all. “Praise God.”
Marcus spoke before she could fall into her weeping again.
“Why did you summon us? Where are your men?”
Claudia, not releasing Avalon’s arm, wiped away some of the moisture on her face, sniffling.
“A terrible thing,” she said. “Sweet Mary, how can I speak of it? I must. I must. Please, I pray you, come inside.”
Marcus stopped Avalon from moving away from him with just a slight touch on her shoulder.
“Tell me where your men are. We’ll not go in until you do.”
For the first time, Marcus thought, this woman Claudia looked at him, right at him, and he could see the surprise in her eyes. Then that emotion clouded into something else, and a brittle curve took her mouth.
“There are no men,” she said. “Can’t you see? They’ve all gone. They’ve either gone or they died. Or lay dying right now, as does the baron.”
“Died from what?” Avalon asked, and Marcus couldn’t tell from her voice if she believed the woman’s story or not.
“I don’t know!” Claudia cried, turning her burning gaze back to Avalon. “It happened so quickly! One night, a fortnight ago, it seemed everything was as it should be, everyone was well. But the next morning dozens were dead! Dozens! And each day added more and more, until most have fled.”
Claudia stepped back and held out one hand, pointing to the village. “Could you not tell? It is deserted! The serfs have fled, God curse them,” she added in a darker voice. “They have left me here, and all that were faithful to me have died as well, almost everyone.”
“But not you,” said Marcus, unmoved.
“No!” Claudia cried, her voice rich with tears again. “First the loss of my husband and now this! I must truly have fallen from God’s graces to have deserved such a blow!”
“So.” Marcus examined Claudia, the bloodshot eyes, the unrelenting black of her mourning garb, her hair beginning to escape the veil. “A sickness sweeps your land and leaves you untouched. A great sorrow indeed. But why did you summon us? We cannot fight a plague for you.”
Again he caught that flicker of surprise in the woman, as if he we
re something she could not understand.
“But I didn’t summon you,” she said, looking back at Avalon. “I summoned only my cousin. I summoned her because the baron is dying, and he is asking for her.”
“My wife,” Marcus emphasized the word, “has no interest in seeing the baron.”
Avalon shifted at his tone, but before she could say anything Claudia cut her off.
“I see,” she said quietly, and right then Marcus had a glimmer of the woman she must have been once, dignified and handsome. She slowly released her hold on Avalon.
“We didn’t know, of course,” she said. “Congratulations to you both.” She raised her hands to her face, slightly shaking, as if she could hide her eyes but then thought better of it and lowered them again.
“Warner has no idea,” she said to Avalon. “Will you not come in anyway? Will you not just see him before death takes him, and wish him Godspeed? He will not live through the night, I am sure of it. I have seen too much of this sickness not to know. And it would mean”—she paused, swallowing—“everything to him.”
Avalon threw Marcus a glance over her shoulder, and he knew then that she meant to go forward into the keep, whether he agreed to it or not. Yet she did not move until he sighed and nodded, keeping his sword ready, their army at their heels.
Claudia led the way into the great hall, to the striped shadows of benches and tables from the feeble fire, some of them cluttered with goblets and bits of food, a mess the size of which suggested the end of a large meal, un-cleaned for days.
“A plague! We’re like to fall ill as well,” hissed Hew under his breath to Marcus, but it was Bal who answered him.
“Oh, I think not. But do not touch anything.”
Hew looked at Bal and then to Marcus, who shrugged, figuring it was as good advice as any he had to give.
Claudia turned at the foot of a curving staircase, one that Marcus only faintly remembered from his one visit here so many years ago. It was these stairs that led to the living quarters of the keep, he knew that much. Claudia raised her hands to her face and lowered them again, as if she kept forgetting the veil was already removed.
“There is food in the buttery,” she suggested, hesitant. “You may have what you like. I’m sorry there are no serfs to serve you.”
“We are not hungry,” said Avalon, throwing everyone behind her a swift, warning look.
“Well.” Claudia turned around, began to climb the stairs. “This way, then, cousin.”
“One moment,” called Marcus. “Where do you take us?”
“I am only interested in taking cousin Avalon, sir. But you are welcome to come, of course. We are going to the baron’s chamber. That’s where he lies now.”
She continued slowly climbing the stairs. Marcus looked back at his men, then to Avalon, who had already begun to follow Claudia. He quickly divided the group with a few words, leaving most in the great hall, about twenty following him behind the women.
The hallway was only intermittently lit, and even then the torches burned low and dim. The rushes they walked on were plainly old, beginning to reek of grime and sweat and some other foul odor Marcus couldn’t name. Every sign indicated decay to him, neglect that would never ordinarily occur in a fine castle such as this. Claudia’s story was beginning to sound more plausible.
At last they paused outside a sturdy door of iron-studded oak. Claudia turned to Avalon and took her hand.
“You’re going to be shocked,” she said gravely. “He had battled death for just one more chance to see you. He’s been calling your name for over a week now. I believe he loves you,” she added, and Marcus saw nothing but sadness on her face. “Please do be kind to him.”
“Of course,” replied Avalon, equally grave.
Claudia glanced at Marcus. “The baron could not possibly cause harm to your wife, my lord. He is much too weak, even if he had the desire to hurt her, which he never would. Will you not allow them a moment of privacy, for him to bid her good-bye alone?”
“No,” said Marcus.
“Very well,” Claudia whispered, the sadness draping her. “I understand your feelings. Then will you not at least grant him some ease, my lord? Have only you and your wife come in? Too many people will disturb the baron, and I am sure you are protection enough for her, are you not?”
“Yes,” said Avalon distantly. “It is enough.”
Marcus looked down at her in surprise, but she only stared at the door glassily, as if she could already fathom what was behind it.
Marcus nodded curtly, knowing Bal and Hew would be close enough to respond to real trouble should it be necessary. He had the power of his men close by in the darkness.
“Then come,” said Claudia simply, and pushed open the door, allowing Marcus to enter first, then Avalon.
Avalon felt as though she were in a dream; her feet dragged on the floor, too heavily weighted to lift properly. Her hands seemed too far from her for good use, her head was clear and empty. It was odd but undeniable, and the closer she got to the great, black box of a bed at the far end of the room, the more sharply accented these feelings became.
She could see Marcus’s broad back as he walked ahead of her. He was looking not just at the curtained bed—closed and shrouded—but all around the room, large and mostly empty of furniture, with his sword a dull curve of steel at his side, aloft.
There was one candelabra not very far from the bed, all its candles unlit. The candles were yellowy white, cratered low, as if they had been left too long to burn anymore, but no one had thought to replace them. There were oddly shaped cakes of wax below them, thick, cold blobs. The only source of light was a remote torch on the far wall.
Avalon didn’t remember the room being quite this big from her girlhood, but it must have been, because this was the baron’s chamber, no matter if that baron were Geoffrey or Bryce or Warner. Perhaps Geoffrey had kept more furniture in here, more chairs, a table at least. Not this long emptiness, pointing to the menace of that black bed.
Her feet were too heavy. It was taking so long to get there. Marcus had already reached it, and now she could tell he was looking back at her, behind her, and again around the room, checking and double-checking. Yet all that seemed to matter was that she reach the bed. That was important. She must hurry.
Avalon saw a hand lift up and it was her own, she knew that, grasping the thick black curtains that shielded the bed. She couldn’t really feel their weight, nor even her hand, but she could hear so well. She heard the rustle of the dusty cloth as her fingers closed over it and began to push it aside. The sound was papery and thin to her ears. Remote yet clear.
Behind the curtains was more blackness. A still, twisted form on the bed, a thatch of pale hair near the top. A terrible, sweetish smell.
Blood had flowed everywhere. It soaked the furs and the clothing, a sticky, drying stiffness wherever it had touched. In the shell of darkness inside the bed it was not red but black; dusky, glittering in the torchlight, still fresh enough to reek of death.
Avalon understood it all just as she heard the whistling sound brush past her ear, felt the air split beside her face.
Marcus shoved her violently aside, making the slice of air and the sound miss her by inches, absorbing it himself instead.
They fell together to the floor, rolling, and became entangled in the stiff folds of the curtains that ripped and popped free of the bed in angry spurts. Marcus was the only softness beneath her; the air smelt of fresh blood now on top of the old. The black brocade curtains were snarled around her from her feet to her thighs.
Avalon struggled to her knees, pushing the material down and away as quickly as she could, but she already knew that she was too slow.
“Please don’t move, dear cousin,” said Claudia in her husky voice from the door.
Avalon looked up and found that Claudia had already reloaded her crossbow while they were falling and had it braced against her shoulder, ready to fire once more.
The door t
o the chamber, right behind her, was shut and latched, with a heavy board slatted across it for good measure.
Marcus, behind and beneath her, was still. If she turned her head just slightly, she could see the cheerful green feathers of the arrow that had struck him standing straight out. Perhaps a shot to his shoulder, she thought. The fact that he didn’t move meant either he was dead—
—no, no, not dead, treuluf—
—or that he had struck his head in the fall and was senseless, or that he was pretending to be either of those things. Avalon wasn’t sure.
The dream sensation of before had not abated, only altered, showing Claudia in sharp, vivid lines, the contrast of her auburn hair against her black veil, a becoming blush on her cheekbones. The gleaming point of the next barbed arrow, aimed right at Avalon’s chest.
“Praise God you have come,” Claudia said again, and in this dream her voice was no different from before, still sounding so sincere. “I knew God would not forsake me this far,” she continued. “He has delivered you to me.”
“You wasted your twenty gold shillings on me, didn’t you?” Avalon said. “Twelve years ago. You paid for a lie. The Picts didn’t kill me after all.”
“Who knew?” replied Claudia lightly, managing to imply a shrug in her tone without actually moving. “What were the chances you would survive a raid?”
Avalon slowly began to turn her head, trying to take in some surroundings beyond the sharp outlines of the woman and the weapon.
Claudia tapped her fingers against the body of the bow. “I do wish you wouldn’t do that, cousin. I’m not quite ready to kill you yet. And I have heard, you see, about this warrior skill it’s said you carry, though likely this is just empty talk or witchcraft. Nevertheless, I do not care to have you demonstrate it.”
The light from the torch spread long, soft shadows across the floor and walls, allowing Claudia’s entire form to disappear into them, leaving only her face, her hands, the deadly crossbow.
“Gwynth was a witch, I am certain of it,” continued Claudia reflectively. “And it’s possible you stole your skills from her, this demon thing. From mother to daughter. I had quite a gala when she died, you know. I never liked her.”
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